


Dominion of the Sun

by TheSweetestTart



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Is this a kissing book?, Original Character(s), Self-Indulgent, Sort of? It's complicated., mostly canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-27 08:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15020309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSweetestTart/pseuds/TheSweetestTart
Summary: “Swear fealty to the Sun. Pledge to him your body and soul. Promise to serve him unto death, and you may know his glory.”Magnai has a vexing affair with the Warrior of Light.





	1. Chapter 1

Warrior of Light.

Magnai dislikes the name immediately. That some unremarkable outsider should bear a name that intrudes upon his own radiance is far graver an insult than he should like to bear. Four prisoners he knows make the journey to the Dawn Throne, yet there is hardly anything spoken of any of them but one-- the Warrior of Light. A godkiller, if rumors are to be believed, and he hesitates to believe them. He should hate to think that the Oronir are so easily convinced by such fear-mongering drivel, and he makes his displeasure known to any and all who cross his path with that heretical name on their lips.

With his rounds about the Dawn Throne complete, he returns to his seat in the main hall, setting his axe down heavily and settling into his seat. Baatu has been in the room with him for scarce more than a few minutes, but has already read the foul mood in the air and quietly taken his usual place, albeit a few steps removed, at the khan’s side. The xaela crosses his arms, his scowl only deepening the more he considered the outcomes of the occasion. The time for consideration comes prematurely to an end as he hears the heavy wooden scrape of the doors against stone-- the prisoners have arrived.

They are four, just as he was told-- two men, and two women. His lip pulls into a crooked snarl. Both men are scaleless, one is tall and broad, the other shorter of stature, but lean and well-muscled. The women are two, one is round of ear like the smaller Doman, and the other is Auri-- but Raen, instead of Xaela. None of them look all too happy to be here, fresh out of Bardram’s trials and soaking wet from the rains that had persisted for near a week already; he allows himself a brief moment to enjoy their indignance. 

But which of them is the Warrior of Light? His first assumption is that it must be the old man-- he certainly has the bearing of a warrior, but something about his stature is distinctly deferential. The little blonde is far too young, too fiery. It must be one of the two raven haired prisoners, the young hyur or the pale-scale. Deliberately, he straightens his posture, leaning forward rather than back, arms crossed over his chest.

“You conquered Bardram’s Mettle.” He says, plainly. He expects explanation.

“As warriors of the Mol, aye. You are the khan here, yes? Why have you summoned us? Mayhap to propose a joint endeavor?” The Doman man speaks up-- his easy confidence allows Magnai to assume that the older man’s deference is due to some queer foreign class structure. Normally anger might flare in his chest at the disrespect, but he finds himself merely amused by the Doman’s ignorant bravado and can’t help an edge of laughter to his voice.

“Nay, Doman. We shall not speak as equals. Born of the Sun are the Oronir, and born of the earth are you.” Magnai rolls his head briefly-- sunless weather has always stiffened his neck, “When I learned of trespassers, I bade my warriors take their measure. To flay them if they failed.”

He senses they grow anxious for the reason of their coming-- particularly the little round eared girl who crosses her arms-- she speaks not, but her stance bespeaks her restlessness. Magnai enjoys the discomfort. It’s the little things about his position as Most Radiant that bring him joy, but he makes sure to keep joy far from his face. It’s best that they’re intimidated, that he shows no weakness, even slight.

“But if by the grace of Azim they should survive their trials and emerge anointed, then bring them hither to pay tribute. Tribute, should it prove satisfactory, shall earn you the favor of the sun. His beloved shall bask in his radiance,” Magnai casts his golden gaze over the four of them, “and their supplications be duly considered.”

“So you want us to bow down and serve you.” The blonde can’t hold her tongue any longer, “What if we don’t feel like it?”

“The defiant will suffer in shadow. It would be an affront to the resplendent Azim himself to refuse this generous offer when by rights you should be condemned. But, in lieu of tribute…” Magnai rests his gaze on the fiery young hyur, “Swear fealty to the Sun. Pledge to him your body and soul. Promise to serve him unto death, and you may know his glory.”

He can’t help but feel almost endeared to the girl. There’s no fun in breaking toys that are already broken, after all. There is merit to her temperament. 

“A generous offer granted to but few…” A smile sneaks its way onto his lips, “But perchance this is too merciful.”

Daidakul gestures for his attention and his little game with the round-eared girl is brought to an end. Back to business.

“Hm.” He leans back casually, amusement lingering in his otherwise detached manner of speaking, “It seems our brothers of the Buduga have want of you. The men only, of course, like the Borlaaq and women-- though you know them not either, I am sure. All you need know is that you will serve, one way or another.”

Frustration is plain to see between the wizened warrior and the young round-ear, though the Doman man remains the picture of composure, Magnai finds himself somewhat puzzled by the pale-scale. Her face never changes, like stone, almost as though she’s disinterested in him. More than that, her stance mirrors his own. She crosses her arms, and when he leans back, she shifts her weight to one hip. His brow twitches in annoyance. Mockery? It’s difficult to tell-- coincidence, probably. Her piercing eyes meet his own, catching him lingering, and his gaze quickly darts back to the younger Doman man.

“That much indeed does seem plain. However, as we are but newborn warriors who know little of your customs, we struggle to conceive of ways in which we might be of service to the most gracious and illustrious Sun.”

Anger swells like a flood, but he restrains his voice where in his younger days he might have screamed so loud the whole of the Stepp would have heard it.

“You make mock of us, Doman. Do not do so again.” Magnai hisses, though his anger settles, it doesn’t entirely fade-- it simmers under the surface. 

“You will be given a task. It will be difficult. You will carry it out,” He speaks in short, clipped statements, fuming still, “When you have accepted this, you may ask me what it is.”


	2. Court Manners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But she was not of the Steppe. She might have conquered Bardram’s Mettle, but a Xaela she was not. It mattered little-- she would be made to kneel like all the rest.

“You know she can breathe underwater, right?” The blonde (who he has recently come to learn as being Lyse, though he takes great care to make sure that he never refers to her as such) looks positively like a coeurl who’s caught a canary, and Magnai hates it. 

 

“I’ve little patience for jests from earthborn prisoners.” Magnai replies plainly, peering over the edge of the Dawn Throne into the swelled lake below-- in which the apparent Warrior of Light currently swims. He had rather hoped to drown her when he assigned the task of gathering swordgrass from the lake’s bottom-- the concept of breathing water was absurd, just as absurd as the woman being a godkiller. But he cannot help a morbid curiosity, and he lingers at the edge of the Throne, watching for any sign of the Raen below.

 

“It’s not a jest. You’ll see. I can breathe underwater too, actually, there was this whole mess with the Kojin, and--”

 

“That’s enough, round-ear. I believe there are sheep who require your  _ immediate  _ attention.” Magnai’s mood is somewhat lightened by the indignant trill of frustration the girl gives as she shuffles off to tend the sheep as directed, but he turns about with a stubborn scowl clinging to his lips to await the return (or drowned cadaver) of the so-called Warrior of Light.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She returns, of course. He wishes she hadn’t, but she did nonetheless. Her steps were so silent that had it not been for the inescapable noise of the main hall’s double doors, he wouldn’t have noticed her at all. It’s here that he manages to get a good look at her for the first time, and the absence of their collective companions emboldens him. He makes no attempt to hide his travelling gaze; she makes no acknowledgement of it-- her gaze is ceaselessly neutral, her stance steady and stoic, but somehow distinctly casual, like she’s used to being objectified.

 

Her skin is pale and her hair is as black as a starless night, cut in painstaking straight lines that even Magnai can recognize as Doman in fashion. She’s thin-- most Auri women are small of stature, but her above average height only exaggerates her litheness. She’s clad in Doman armor, voluminous black cloth covering a dark silver scale fauld and kept together by a black leather obi and spaulders; All this combined with the hood pulled up over her head suggests her preferred manner of operation is probably stealth, and the silence which with she walked seemed appropriate in retrospect. He’s surprised; she dresses with very little of the flair he might’ve expected of someone with such a flashy title, but the way the armor cinches about her waist and compliments her feminine form suggest that she is not entirely without a subtler vanity. A splash of color stands out in a small red gemstone on a circlet of gold that sits under her hood, popping out against the sheer black of her hair.

 

Her eyes are nearly as pale as her skin, and they never leave him, never shying away from the brazenness with which he stares. She breaks her statue-like stillness to raise up the swordgrass she clutches in her hand.

 

“I’ve completed my task.” She says-- her voice is soft, almost like how one might expect a doll given life to sound. He had expected harsher tones from a seasoned warrior, and the surprise briefly shows on his face despite himself.

 

“So I see. When your companion said you could breathe the water, I did not believe her. I still do not, if truth be told.” Magnai sits forward in his throne, propping his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers loosely. 

 

“What you believe is none of my concern.” She replies evenly, hand still holding out the swordgrass; her tone lacks any indignance or intention to offend, just as it lacks any hint one way or another as to the truth of the matter. He had hoped she might feel the pull to defend her honor, or the honor of her friend, but she’s cold. Distant. 

 

Magnai grins, a subtle thing that he hides beneath a casual shift of stance that raises his hands just over his mouth. It’s been awhile since he’s had a good game of cat and mouse, especially with a woman. Being the khagan meant that his very presence, by definition, inspired at least obedience if not respect-- such was the law of the Steppe that all its honorable dwellers obeyed.

 

But she was not of the Steppe. She might have conquered Bardram’s Mettle, but a Xaela she was not. It mattered little-- she would be made to kneel like all the rest, and he would take special pleasure in the challenge of forcing her to. Amidst the haze of days gone by in search of his Nhaama, of Naadam preparations and ceaseless petty tribal squabbles the word that jumps first to his mind is near to  _ relief _ at the prospect of something-- some _ one _ new and exciting.

 

In the haze of his thoughts, he doesn’t hear her cross the room and nearly jolts at the sight of her only a fulm away, only one step down from the platform on which his throne sits. She offers the swordgrass out to him more insistently-- he snaps closed his hand about her wrist, lips curling into a sneer somewhere between offense and excitement.

 

“You must be either very brave or very thoughtless to approach the khagan like that, pale one. I’ve half a mind to take the hand that offended in reparation of such an insult.” He leans forward, his grip keeping her from shying away, voice a low growl. Her expression shifts subtly, eyes growing cold; they meet his own fearlessly.

 

“I didn’t think the khagan would see fit to stand up and take his prize.” She opens her hand to release the swordgrass onto his lap, “He seems more a languid house pet than a ferocious beast.”

 

Fury rushes through his veins white-hot and in an instant he nearly snaps the woman’s arm-- her hand twists uncomfortably in his vice grip. He settles for pulling her in closer, twisting her elbow about. Her lips pull taut, the only sign of pain on her face.

 

“Then you fail to see anything just the same as your ignorant companions. You would do well to remember that you’re only alive because I allow you to be. You walk on _my_ throne, among _my_ people, upon _my Steppe_.” He leans forward even further, speaking low against her horn, “You will do as the sun commands, do you understand?”

 

She doesn’t reply, but he hears the quickened pace of her breathing with bestial satisfaction and keeps the distance-- or rather lacktherof. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her jaw tighten, and slowly, reluctantly, she nods her head. Satisfied, he releases her wrist from his grip and sits back into his throne. The woman backs down and away from him, to the middle of the hall.

 

“Will that be all?” She asks quietly.

 

“For now.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> magnai is such a smug little jerk, i can't help but love writing him. i can't wait to crack open the chemistry between him and the WoL
> 
> thank you all so much for your comments on the last chapter-- it's such a huge deal to me to have so much support!! i hope that you enjoy this chapter, and i'll work to release more shortly!

**Author's Note:**

> mostly canon stuff here. i promise i'll get to the actual boinking soon. its always weird toeing the line of how much in-game dialogue to lift, but it seemed best to keep it pretty on point


End file.
